


now it's come to distances

by evewithanapple



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: She should have thought harder. She should have clung tighter. Maybe she should even have prayed.





	now it's come to distances

After Violet is allowed to retire to bed for the night, she punches her pillow hard enough to make her arm ache. It doesn't do much good, really, not being any of the people she really wants to punch - but Mrs. Scanwell is out of her reach, and Justice Hunt too risky of a target. The pillow it is, then. When she's done, sore from her wrist to her shoulder, she lies on her back, staring at the ceiling and chewing on her lip.

_My mother is very keen . . ._

Yes, of course; she would be, wouldn't she? Old, dried-out Florence Scanwell who probably hasn't felt a loving touch since before her daughter was born, and didn't enjoy it even when she did. There's not even a fleeting bit of doubt in Violet's mind that she can blame Florence for their current situation; Amelia's sweet-natured, generous to a fault, struggles to say no, but even she wouldn't buckle if it was just Hunt who was pushing her towards the altar. She recognizes the pained, queasy look on Amelia's face from a hundred times before -  _my mother is sick, my mother needs me, it would break my mother's heart_. Violet suspects Florence's heart is made of tougher stuff than Amelia thinks; her body may be failing (and how Violet prays to the God she loves so much that it will fail soon) but she certainly has the iron she needs to hold Amelia in her grip all these years. She's kept her daughter in dirty rags and gutter beds all her life, and still Amelia worships blindly at her altar. A hundred times Amelia's deferred to her mother's judgement, and a hundred times Violet's wanted to ask her,  _why?_  What can Amelia possibly owe her mother at this point? Even filial piety has its limits, and any other daughter would have long since been pushed beyond endurance. Violet left her own home for far less. She could have told Amelia as much. She could have told her that she had a right to her own life and her own happiness, that no good and loving mother would prevent it. She could even have said, bluntly, that Florence could screech about damnation and hellfire just fine without her daughter’s assistance. She _could_ have said all these things; but she hadn’t, sensing raising the subject would shatter the peace between them like a rock through a window. So she held her tongue. And look at all the good it’s done them.

Hunt had called her _my dear_ , kissed her hands like – well, like a lover. Violet’s wanted to slap him dozens of times since she came to live in his household, but this is the first time she’s wanted to inflict more damage than a red and stinging cheek. She knows he’s not a smart man – he wouldn’t survive even half a day in the world Violet knows – but his naïveté now beggars belief. He can’t _really_ believe that Amelia loves him, can he? She looks like she’s choking on a mouth full of vomit whenever he touches her. There are men, Violet knows, to whom it wouldn’t matter; who want a wife to keep house and provide them with heirs and a warm bed, and don’t account for the woman’s feelings at all. That’s not Hunt. She despises the man, but even she has to admit that much. He wants a wife that loves him. He wants _Amelia_ to love him. Violet had only been half-joking before, when she said they’d be well-suited; under other circumstances, they would be. Under other circumstances, she wouldn’t care.

Amelia – God, it would be easy to be furious with her. She _should_ be furious. It was Amelia, after all, who set all this in motion – who secured Violet in her position at Hunt’s house, who came every day to see her and gave Hunt the opportunity to fall in love with her. Violet may hate him, but she can’t blame him for that; of _course_ he fell in love with her. Why wouldn’t he? She’s sweet, pious, demure; the perfect wife for a justice of the peace. Even Violet fell in love with her, and Violet’s no man of the law. It’s just that Hunt makes a far better match for a good Christian girl than Violet does.

The skin of her lip splits beneath her teeth, startling her out of her thoughts. She sucks it into her mouth, holding it there until the taste of blood washes away. Her tongue still feels thick, tasting sour and spoiled. Because, of course, it’s true – Hunt _is_ a good match for her. He’ll lift her out of poverty, ensure she’ll never need fear a night on the streets again. He’ll protect her from the likes of Lydia Quigley. He’ll introduce her to people who can give her the money and influence she’ll need to do the work she wants to do. He’ll give her children. All the things that are miles out of Violet’s reach and always have been – all the things she never thought about, because why worry about what hasn’t yet come to pass? Why dwell on the things you’ll never have when you can enjoy the things you do? Violet knows her limits, and she’s lived her life within them. Amelia’s not the first girl she’s dallied with; there have been others, all sent on their way when their couplings grew dull and rote. None of them were ever concerned with the future, and so neither was Violet. The prospect of having someone taken from her is nothing novel – Betsey, her brothers and sisters, various friends lost to the pox or the gallows, lovers who drifted away – but this is the first time they’ve been snatched out from under her before she even thought to grab for them. She should have thought harder. She should have clung tighter. Maybe she should even have prayed.

There’d been a moment, earlier – Hunt had left the room to fetch something, leaving Amelia and Violet alone. Amelia had stared at her shoes, face red and splotchy. “I’m sorry,” she’d said, almost inaudible. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And Violet had said nothing, because what was there to say? She couldn’t cry or rage – Hunt would hear her. She couldn’t comfort Amelia – she was too raw for that. All she could do was stay rooted to the floor, until Hunt came back and shooed her away without even looking in her direction. All she could do was wait and listen for the door closing behind Amelia, for the sound of Hunt humming happily and tunelessly to himself, for the moment she could flee to her room – the smallest bit of sanctuary she has left – and let her rage leak quietly out, filling up the darkened space until she feels the weight of the trap that’s closed in on them all.


End file.
